


The Living Bride

by angeloftheopera



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bits of fluff, Blonde Christine, E/C, Erik gets a redemption arc, F/M, Leroux with some ALW and Kay influences, Rating may change to M in later chapters, in which Christine just wants to control her own life, there is no Raoul bashing but he is not super relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 23:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14862212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeloftheopera/pseuds/angeloftheopera
Summary: Christine sets herself out to find Erik after hearing that “the Phantom” was never found and presumed dead in the papers. She wants to know for herself whether or not it is true, but does not quite expect the rising anxiety that befalls her on the journey. Despite everything, she hopes he is alive.





	1. Chapter 1

Approaching the old opera house was much more difficult than Christine Daaé had imagined. Not because of the fallen debris, or the scorched marble staircase she had to climb to reach the top. Nor was it the bittersweet memories that began to flash through a deep and pushed away piece of her consciousness when she managed to open the door that lead inside. No, what was difficult was the task she had set for herself, the entire reason she was there: to find Erik.

Christine wrapped her arms around herself with uncertainty as she attempted in vain to find her old dressing room. It was only her's for a short while, though it became known as her's nonetheless. 

The opera house was an absolute wreck, fallen debris and burnt remains scattered across the floor. There had been a team of men who refurbished the area and worked on the damage during the day, but from what Christine could tell, they had spent the majority of their time cleaning the stage itself, rather than the corridors surrounding it. 

The reminder of what he did was almost too much, almost enough to make her turn back and leave...almost. After hearing that the Phantom was never found and assumed dead, Christine could hardly rest. Every day tasks were growing harder to accomplish; her mind wandered for hours on end and an aching dullness within her chest compelled her to seek out the truth, whatever it may be. She spent many nights shedding tears for the man who had once been a dear companion to her, and as much as she didn't wish to admit it, she did care for him. Yet there she was, about to wed the very same man she had gone to when Erik needed her most. 

Shaking the thought out of her head, she lifted petite gloved hands to move a burned side table out of her path. It opened a doorway which lead to the very same room she had come to after her first performance. The night he had first appeared to her, through the mirror. Fighting back tears, she warily stepped into the debris-filled room and looked around. 

There were scorched paintings, flowers that had long-been dead, and furniture that looked it might break if you so much as breathed on it. Christine lifted a hand to cover her mouth as she gazed upon the center piece of the room. Amongst its less than kept surroundings, the mirror still stood, seemingly untouched and unfazed by the dark reminders around it. 

For a moment, it seemed almost as if nothing had changed. She was still that young girl, waiting for her mysterious angel who called out to her. Yet, it was not the same; for not a sound emitted from behind the mirror. The thought sent unwelcome chills down Christine's spine and she swallowed a sob as she slowly approached the mirror. 

It took a few moments to locate the small, hidden away switch that allowed the mirror to creek open, and the woman couldn't help but feel her cheeks burn in shame for being so easily deceived that first time he appeared to her. It had truly seemed magical, when in fact it had all been an elaborate ploy to get her to fall under his influence even more. Not for the first time that evening, Christine considered ending this expedition there and then, telling herself that whether he survived or not was unimportant. Even still, she held her breath and took a step inside the passageway.

Behind it, Christine half-expected to find those illuminating candelabras lining the walls with that mysterious glow which still haunted her dreams. But the hallway was as dark as death, the only light was that which came from behind her. She scolded herself for not thinking to bring an oil lantern, and opened the mirror the rest of the way so as to let as much light in as she could. 

The hallway was still dim and gravely, and Christine retreated into the dressing room, blue eyes desperately searching for a matchbox. Her lithe fingers fumbled around a dust-covered dresser as she opened a drawer she had once kept the flame sticks. Inside were old letters, discarded gloves and jewelry, a long red candle, and the box! 

Christine almost leapt with joy when she discovered the small device which could quite possibly save her from her suffering of darkness. Swiftly, she grasped the candle and ignited a match. The wick sparked a few times, which caused her heart to race in anxiety, before it caught flame and allowed her some peace of mind. 

She walked out into the dark hall once again, holding the box of matches securely in one hand, and the candle in the other. It gave off a very dim glow and with a short radius, but it was still better than complete black. 

Darkness was not something Christine was entirely accustomed to, so as she walked down the candlelit path she felt herself start to grow nervous. She glanced longingly over her shoulder at the light of the dressing room from which she came, and took a deep breath. The thought of her angel-no, Erik, being dead tugged at her heart and quite honestly invoked an extreme sorrow from within. She had to know. 

It was as though Christine was she navigating through the tunnels by tapping into her subconscious mind that had seen the way a number of times and yet never fully comprehended the path, twisting and turning every which way until eventually she found herself at the lake. 

"The boat," she gasped, aloud, "it is still here- ah!" She suddenly seethed in pain and dropped the candle stick quickly as hot red wax dripped down her hand and along her wrist. The candle extinguished immediately as it hit the cold floor, leaving her in utter darkness. 

The overwhelming panic rising up within her caused her to feel as though she was about to get sick; she doubled over and fell to the cold floor, tears springing to her eyes. Her deep, ragged breaths eventually calmed, though the tears continued to come. 

Christine reached out, blindly groping at the space on the ground to find the candle. Relief washed over her when she discovered something firm beside her and she wrapped her hand around it, only to discover it was definitely not solid wax that she was holding: it was a bone. 

A scream escaped her form, and she threw the bone into the lake with frightened tears running down her flushed cheeks. "W-why?" She curled up on the cold ground, pulling her knees to her face as she sobbed woefully. "Am I to die here?" Christine's voice was shaken and scared as she spoke to no one but herself, and perhaps God. "Am I to die here? In my pursuit of redemption?" She buried her face in her hands and backed up until she felt the coolness of the wall against her back. 

"No," she pulled her hands away from her face, "no, this is not my fate, it cannot be." Christine shuddered and took a deep breath, then once again began to feel along the ground for the items she dropped. After several moments her cold and frightened fingers found the box of matches. 

The young woman slid the box open with delicateness that she did not know she had, trying to keep herself steady. Lighting a match, she held it out in front of her in attempt to find the candle. This time Christine did manage to find it, and grasped it quickly before the match burned out in her fingers. 

Before her, she discovered the rest of the skeletal body from which she had so innocently plucked a piece from just to throw into the murky lake. It looks like a soldier, though with its withered skin and sunken eyes, it is extremely hard to tell. It smelled something fowl. 

If someone had told told Christine she would be doing this a mere week before, she'd have called them mad. But there she was, in front of a ghostly corpse in the catacombs, holding only a candle to light the way to someone who, may or not, be dead himself. "I apologize," she whispered sincerely to the corpse before her, although she knew he has been long dead and rotting for at least six months. 

Six months. Six months since she had last seen him. Six months since she had left him. Six months since she had spent every moment with a conflicting conscience. Her mind and heart seemed to be wishing for different things. 

With new-found determination, Christine climbed aboard the boat and set the candle down cautiously so that she might be able to grasp the pole with both hands. "I can do this," her voice murmured softly, swallowed by the darkness, "I can do this." She rowed with careful precision, and began humming a gentle tune to calm her growing nerves. 

 

It seemed like a hundred years had passed before Christine arrived at the open gate of his domain. It looked so dark, so deserted. She docked with a sudden sense of nostalgia and uneasiness and grabbed the candle from the boat. The house on the lake was dark inside, and the only sound she could make out was the rapping of the gondola against the dock. 

She walked slowly up to the front door and hesitated for the briefest of moments before she turned the knob and stepped inside. God, it was even darker inside the house than it was in the vast catacombs. Blue eyes strained to see, and upon discovering a candelabra, she lit each white stick of wax with with her own candle before setting the almost completely melted mess of red wax down. Turning, she took in the sight around her, a growing uneasiness settled in her stomach. 

"Erik?" Her voice was soft and gentle, and it was very clear that she was on the brink of tears. She began to panic, her breathing becoming rapidly faster as she thinks about how he might really be dead.

In the light provided by the candelabra, Christine caught a glimpse of something reflective. Upon further inspection, she found that it was his organ. She approached the instrument warily, taking in the sight of untouched music sheets everywhere, as though someone had once played frequently but suddenly stopped. Like time was frozen. Only... 

Christine's face contorted in worry and disbelief as she trailed a finger along the keys before her. A low wail emitted from the pipes, and a thick layer of dust came off on her once-white glove. She stared down at his organ which once held so much life, now covered in cobwebs and dust. 

It seemed like only yesterday that he had sat there and played for her. He was always so expressive when playing music. Not with his face - not that she could see, anyways - but how he would lean in and sway from side to side. He lived for music. He couldn't have...he wouldn't have abandoned it were he alive. 

"No..." Christine started to shake uncontrollably, and had to set the candelabra on the side table to avoid dropping it. Her hand lifted to her mouth in horror, waves of realization crashing down over her in a threat to suffocate her. "No!" She shouted, loud sobs escaping her mouth as she collapsed to the floor. He was dead. "Angel..." Her voice came out as a pleading whisper. The young soprano curled inside herself and sobbed so hard that it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. 

Then she heard it.

"Christine?"


	2. Chapter 2

The hard tone of the voice belied the absolute shock behind it; even then, it provided Christine with some comfort. Her tears subdued and she turned around, eyes rimming with hope. There Erik stood; alive and as grim as ever, holding a candelabra himself, and his golden eyes filled with tears as he looked down at her with an unreadable emotion. He didn't understand why she was there; his heart ached with her mere proximity, though he remained wary. 

She immediately jumped up, running to the man, and sobbed in his arms, placing her head against his chest. "Oh god, I-I thought you had died," she held him tightly, as though she had no intention of ever letting go, and he stiffened, still not fully comprehending the situation. 

Erik set down the candelabra slowly, and then reached up to the sobbing girl in his arms with shaking hands. He had thought she would be pleased to hear of his death in the papers, knowing that he would never bother her again. And yet there, the young soprano stood. It was not the vicomte's arms she was in right then. No, she was in the embrace of a murderer, and yet she thought him not cruel, nor wicked, nor evil. 

"Christine, what are you doing here?" He spoke in the same tone, voice hoarse, attempting to pull away from her warmth. He needed answers. She'd left him...but she came back. Why did she come back? 

Christine stepped away quickly, as though he had struck her. Her entire demeanor shifted as she wrapped her arms around herself with a guarded expression on her face. 

"Forgive me," she whispered, and she blinked uneasily. "I'd forgotten myself for a moment." He started towards her, but she took an involuntary step back, eyes wide. "Please don't," she shook her head, and Erik winced at the sight. 

"You are the one who came to me, Christine," his voice sounded more harsh than intended, and she flinched. "Christine," his voice was a pained whisper as he repeated, "Why are you here?" 

She looked up at him with wide eyes. "I-I don't know," she lied, fumbling with her hands. Erik frowned at that, and began to walk towards her. He knew there was something wrong. Was he making her uneasy? He stopped short of contact, trying to meet her blue eyes in hopes of reading the expression hidden there.

"Look at me, Christine," he commanded. Then in a softer tone, he repeated himself, "Look at me." She frowned, her cheeks reddening at his pained tone. "Why do you come here just to torture me?" He reached a hand up to her face, and she unthinkingly snatched it away; though she held it in her small palm. They both seemed entranced as they silently entwined their fingers, and Erik could feel his heart racing against his poor chest.

"I do not mean to," Christine whispered, still looking at their hands. "To torture you, I mean." She wished she could remove her gloves. Erik was appalled, confused by her strange behavior, yet he could not express in words his feelings. He couldn't help but think back to their last encounter, back to her soft lips against his, and raised a hand to her face. That time she did not refuse. She merely closed her eyes as his fingers grazed over her lips.

"Why are you here Christine?" He repeated, his voice strained as he tore himself away from her. The young woman gasped as their fingers separated, and she attempted to compose herself, looking at anything but his face. Her eyes settled on his chest, and she noticed that the fabric was slightly parted, exposing pale and scarred skin beneath his deep blue shirt. Blushing in shame, she closed her eyes and looked away from him. Just as soon, though, she felt his hand lifting her chin back to look at him, and her eyes snapped open. His gaze pleaded with her, ignoring her flushed face. 

Christine took a deep breath as tears began to form in her eyes. "I am to be wed tomorrow, to Raoul," she managed, and his eyes closed with pain as he recoiled, taking back his hand and turning away.

"Then why are you not with the vicomte, Christine?" He attempted to stay calm, but it felt as though he'd just taken a blow to the gut. Nothing was making sense. The more she spoke, the more confused he seemed to become. "Came to say your goodbyes, have you?" Erik spat, "Or perhaps you need your ring back, now that you are to marry your boy." 

Christine stepped towards him, just barely reaching out to touch his shoulder, "Please, Erik. You do not understand." 

"Enlighten me, then, my dear," his voice was low. "Why did you choose to venture to a tomb when you could be lounging around at the de Chagny estate? You will be spending plenty of time there, you must adjust to the luxury." 

His words stung, and Christine found herself taking her hand back. "Perhaps I wished to see if...if you were still here," she spoke softly. "When, in the papers, it had stated your supposed death...I don't know how to describe the anguish I felt." 

The masked man was silent a moment, then, with a grandiose gesture, waved to himself, "As you can very well see, I am not yet dead. Go home to your boy." 

Christine's face expressed true sorrow, in that moment. "I understand my presence is not welcome," she offered a small nod. "I apologize, Monsieur, for intruding upon your humble abode. Forgive me for wishing to see whether or not someone I care about is still alive." With that, she began to step away; Erik could feel the panic rise within him.

"Christine," He started, and she stopped. "If you truly care for me...it would be best for you to not come back." Every word sent a pain through his heart, though he knew it must be said. "It is...it is agonizing to have you so close, knowing you will inevitably leave to return to your boy again. I imagine it will be easier for you too...to move on." 

The young soprano stood in pensive silence, her heart aching in her chest. She understood what he was saying; it would induce more pain for them to see each other and be parted, than for them to simply cease contact altogether. Even still, she stubbornly shook her head. 

"I...prefer your company, Erik, to the company of the de Chagny staff," Christine spoke after a long while, choosing her words carefully. "To be quite frank, Raoul has not been in very often." Her shoulders rose and fell in an off-handed shrug while she continued, "He tries to make up for it with clothing and letters and pretty flowers left upon my dresser, but-" She dared to glance towards the masked man and found that he was watching her, his gaze intense. "Something is missing," Christine admitted in a soft tone, finally turning fully to face him. "I have cause to believe that something is music. I have cause to believe that something...is you."

Erik swallowed, his mouth feeling entirely too dry to produce sound, let alone coherent words. Once again, he was left feeling speechless. She stepped closer, and he realized that her distance from him was directly proportionate to the accelerating palpitations of his heart. His name slipped from her lips, calling his attention, and he let out a shaken breath. 

"What," his voice finally came out, hoarse and soft, "do you propose we do, then?" 

Christine looked up at him under dark lashes, contemplation running over her features. "I don't know, Erik," she whispered, matching the quiet tone which was unconsciously set, "but I - I wish to see you in the future." 

"If you had to choose," Erik frowned, stepping even closer, "between me and the vicomte...it would not be me, would it." It was more a statement than a question. She looked up at his solemn features, and quickly glanced away as she felt her heart flutter in her chest. 

"Erik, I," The young soprano shook her head, "I don't know, anymore. I wish I didn't have to choose. Raoul is very dear to me, you know this, but..." Her breath caught in her throat when Erik's hand grazed her chin, encouraging her to meet his gaze. "But then, so are you," she finished weakly, blinking up at him with wide blue eyes.

His lips pursed in thought, golden eyes trailing over her features in a way she could only assume was to analyze her expressions. "So you would not choose me," he murmured pensively, "but you would not choose him, either." Erik paused, "You certainly are...an intriguing creature." 

Christine could feel her cheeks begin to warm, a blush spreading across her face. She looked away, "All I know is that I would very much like for this to not be the last time I see you, Erik." After a brief moment of hesitation, her voice came again, "I'll admit that I...I️ have missed you."

Those words tugged at his heart, and he found himself reaching out to her, closing the distance between them as his hands fell at the curve of her waist and drew her nearer. He was not one to initiate affection, and yet he had the uncontrollable desire to do so. Silently, after a moment of shock, Christine's lithe hands trailed up his back and settled on his shoulder blades. Her face came to rest upon his weary chest, and Erik was all-too-aware of the fact that she could hear the frantic drumming of his heart. They were in a tender embrace, and both parties could not have felt more content.

"Christine," her name came out like a prayer on his lips, which pressed a reverent kiss to her blonde curls. "Would you...would you stay with me, Christine? Here?" 

A short breath escaped her as she considered it; staying with a dear friend and maestro, being re-immersed into the life of music, sitting in his parlor by the fire with a book, like she used to. She would cook them meals and make them tea, and assist in anything he would permit her assistance with. He would be gentle and patient with her, she knew. She also knew, though, that there would be obstacles if she were to stay. His temper, for one. His mask, for another. And Raoul; what would she tell him?

"May I think about it?" Christine whispered, looking up at him. "Please?"

His mouth set in a sad frown, "You are to marry Raoul tomorrow. The choice is yours to make, but you must decide before the wedding." 

The wedding! Christine had nearly forgot. She nodded, understanding entirely. Though she dreaded leaving him here, alone in his home five cellars below the opera, the young soprano knew she had to. She needed time to think everything over. The blonde gently began to pull away, and Erik immediately let go, watching her with those intense golden eyes of his.

"I must clear my head - surely, you understand, dear Erik?" Her voice was soothing, apologetic. "I shall make my decision before the wedding, I promise you. You shall know, either way." Christine reached out a grasped one of his gloved hands in her own, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to his knuckles. "Oh, please understand, Erik, that this is going to be very difficult for me." 

He nodded, grimly, "I understand...I will live with whatever it is that you decide. Now, I will escort you back above. Forgive me for saying, my dear, but you look as though you barely made the journey here alone."


	3. Chapter 3

Christine could hardly sleep that night, tossing and turning and stripping away the top layers of her bed when she found herself too hot. Her mind was practically being ripped in half. Oh, how she longed to be by Erik's side, but she loved Raoul, and would never wish to hurt him. She didn't wish to hurt anyone, yet in her present circumstance it seemed as though that would be unavoidable. 

The wedding would not be until noon, but even so she was left with less time than she would've liked to have to make the decision. She looked after at the small wooden clock beside her bed, and let out a sigh. It was already three in the morning. Was it even worth it to attempt sleep? 

With slow movements, Christine kicked off the rest of her blankets and made her way out of the overly-cushioned bed. She slipped on her silk slippers and she pulled on her robe, glancing at her reflection in the mirror for a brief moment before lighting a lamp and exiting the room. 

The hallways were dim, lit only by the moonlight peaking through the magnificent windows and glass doors that, should one choose to open, would lead to quaint balconies that overlooked the gardens. Precisely where she was headed, in fact. 

Whenever the young soprano needed to clear her mind, she would find herself taking quiet strolls amongst the hedges and flowers. Christine stopped short at the bottom of the large staircase when she heard the sound of someone approaching. The footsteps were rather loud and going at an exponentially fast rate. She blew out her oil lamp and crouched down on the steps, her heart rate increasing though she could not fathom why. What on Earth was happening? 

"Phillip we've been through this before," a voice said, seeming to follow the quick footsteps with a certain disparity. "I love her, and I will marry her tomorrow. The entire city knows! You can not deny me this happiness." 

Raoul. It was Raoul and his brother. And they were talking about her. Christine held her breath as they got closer, shifting to press flat against the stair railing. 

"The de Chagny name will be disgraced if you do this," Phillip pleaded, sounding regretful yet unwavering. "An opera singer, nay, a chorus girl has no place to marry a vicomte! She has no money, no prospects. There is absolutely nothing to gain by marrying her!" 

"Excluding my happiness, you mean?" Raoul snapped. "And the happiness of someone that you have also known since we were children?" 

There was a moment of silence, then, "Dear brother, do you know that she would be happy?" 

"What do you mean?" Raoul's voice was guarded. 

Phillip sighed, and Christine heard something that sounded like he had placed his hands upon his brother's shoulders with a condescending pat. "You have not been home much, Raoul...you have not seen her," he spoke softly, and the young soprano strained to hear from her place on the stairs. "In the papers it was stated that that man, the opera ghost, had been officially decreed dead." 

Raoul seemed relieved at the information, which made Christine's heart sting. "Good riddance, if you ask me," he stated simply. "Now I know that he shan't meddle in the future. That man always did have some strange influence on Christine, but where were you going with this? The mighty opera ghost is dead, of what significance is that to me?" 

Christine could practically see Phillip shake his head, "Not you, dear brother. Christine. She wept upon the discovery. The maids have been speaking about it for weeks. She has not eaten well, barely sleeps, and the servants have caught her sobbing in the gardens." 

"She did...care for him, I know," Raoul's voice seemed distant. "I will never understand how or why; it is entirely unfathomable, though it remains fact." He let out a loud sigh, as though exhausted and perturbed. "Christine will get over his death. I will help her." 

"When?" Phillip enquired, "What time do you have to comfort a mourning wife when you are constantly working? I do not mean to be insensitive, but I sincerely doubt anything will change. The news could get out, about her depression, and it would reflect on the family." 

Christine had had just about enough of listening in on them. She desperately wished to slip away, back up into her bedroom and silk sheets and forget the words she had heard. It would be too risky, though, and she did not quite know what she would do, were Raoul and his brother to see her. 

"Please, Phillip-" 

"I am speaking the truth," the other man commented in a stern tone. "If people were to find out whom exactly it was that she was mourning, that she felt sympathy for a murderer, it would make us seem like we feel the same. We must set an example for the people, and we do not wish to condone criminality." 

There was another harrowing sigh, then Raoul's voice cut through the tense silence that settled through the three of them; though of course neither men were aware of the young soprano listening in. "I shall think it over, Phillip." 

 

Once Christine was finally able to slip away, she hastily returned to her room, no longer set on seeing the gardens. Her blue eyes pricked with tears. She knew that Phillip had strong reservations about her entering the family, but...he really did not want her there. Just as he said; she was of the working class. She had nothing to offer them, other than a soiled reputation. The de Chagnys held significant influence over a great deal of Paris, and if she ruined their name, then they could lose all of the loyalty they'd spent years attempting to build. 

She held no ill-will towards them, and she knew Phillip likely did not detest her on a personal level, but it seemed that she had discovered another factor to take in upon making her decision. 

"They don't want me here, anyways," Christine whispered solemnly to herself. Her eyes trailed over her lovely bedroom, which Raoul had decorated to suit her personal simplistic style. It was pink and white and had flowers on the dresser from the last time he'd brought home a bouquet for her. 

Home. She kept thinking of it as home, but was it really? It seemed like the opera house had been her home for the longest time, and if she returned, Christine was certain it'd feel like home again. The young soprano tried to be quiet in her movements, lest her footsteps alert anyone to her actions. 

From beneath her bed, Christine pulled out a large travel case and set it atop the mattress. As soon as she snapped it open, she was scurrying around to grab all of her necessities. Undergarments, nightgowns, light dresses that were not for extravagant outings and could easily be folded. A pair of slippers and a pair of shoes. After packing in her hairbrush, Christine began to get dressed, herself. 

She dressed comfortably, knowing that it would be a long walk to the opera house from there and that she would also need to not look as though she were escaping from the de Chagny estate. That reminded her...

Christine briskly walked to her desk and pulled out a sheet of stationary and her fountain pen. In elegant, albeit hurried letters, she composed a note addressed to Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny. 

"It has all become too much. I have gone to be with my angel of music. Remember that I love you, dearest Raoul, the boy who fetched my scarf from the sea. I wish you and your family the very best.

Yours,   
Lotte"

They thought that Erik was dead, which meant they would assume she had taken her own life. The thought sent shivers down her spine; she did not wish to think of Raoul's despair. A single tear escaped her eye and moistened the corner of the paper, blurring the ink just slightly. She stepped away. 

Christine grabbed her bag and strode to her balcony, opening the double doors and peering over the decorative railing. She was not so high up, she did not think, that she could not drop her luggage and then retrieve it when she made it to the ground below. She hauled the bag up and tossed it over the side, cringing inwardly when she heard the loud thud it made against the grassy bed beneath. 

There was no going back now, was there. Christine closed the doors that lead back into the room and then began to climb over the side of the railing, keeping her grip firm and her breathing steady. There was a ladder that was attached to the rock foundation of the wall, and if she could just reach it from where she was- 

Her fingers strained for purchase for a moment, but once they took hold on the sturdy step of the ladder, she swung herself off of the balcony and started her way down to the ground below. In her haste, she nearly fell more than once, but she made it! Christine gathered her bag and headed towards the gardens, offering one last glance towards the estate before leaving for good. 

"Au revoir, Raoul." 

 

It was nearing dawn when Christine finally approached the opera house, and she hurriedly made her way of the stairs, terrified of being discovered. The night before, Erik had showed her a faster way to his domain, should she choose to come back. At that moment, scatterbrained and frightened as she was, it was proving very difficult to remember...oh, that stage! Yes, the stage! 

Christine prayed there weren't already workers inside as she let out a deep breath and readjusted her grip on her bag. She walked with quiet steps, and figured she would continue to do so until absolutely certain she was the only soul in sight. 

Opening the door to the theater with an infinitesimal crack, the young soprano searched the room for any sign of human life. When it was clear that she was alone - for now - she began to run towards the stage. 

"Okay, okay," she spoke aloud, trying to remember. He had shown her a door just off of the stage, near the back... Christine walked forward, and with some difficulty managed to find the hidden door in the floorboards. She swung it open, and was relieved to see light coming from below. He had illuminated her path! 

The young soprano lugged her bag over the opening in the floor and watched as it fell unceremoniously below. After adjusting her skirts, Christine took a breath and dropped down as well, the bag cushioning her fall. Light glared down at her from a torch bolted to the wall. The young soprano stood, adjusted her skirts, and grabbed her bag, once again.

After a few strides, there was another torch, and another! Christine extinguished them as she passed, knowing that by lighting the way to his house in order to assist her, he was also lighting the way for anyone else who should find the torches. She could not be too careful when it came to Erik.

Through this path, she did not even have to get on the gondola, and a mere fifteen minutes or so after entering the opera house, she could see the outline of his little house in on the lake. 

"Oh!" Tears rushed to her eyes, adrenaline fading and leaving her feeling weak and depressed. She scurried to his door as quickly as possible, and just as she was about to knock it was opened; Erik stood there, taking in her shivering and sniveling form and then gently tugging her inside. He looked out of the crack in the door, as though searching for followers, before finally pushing it closed. 

Christine set down her bag and was leaning against a wall, breathing heavy and eyes watery. "Forgive me," her voice rasped out, "Erik, for arriving so early...I find...I find I am rather exhausted." 

Erik could hardly believe what was happening. She had made her decision. And that decision had been to return to him. He'd lit the path for her, though he was almost certain that she would not come. There she was, though, blue eyes watery and cheeks flushed from her journey. 

He hesitated before he spoke, "I can take your bag to your room...there is a fire going in the parlor, might I join you there? Go on and sit, Christine, I shall be right with you." Erik gathered her bag and strode out of the room, leaving the young soprano to do as recommended. 

She walked with slow, drowsy movement, shedding her coat and gloves and hanging them by the door before going to the parlor. It was just as she remembered it used to be, which meant that Erik had likely spent the last several hours cleaning his house. The thought made her smile, despite the rush of emotions coursing through her. 

It was warm in there, and Christine found herself sitting right before the fireplace, reveling in the feeling of the warmth on her cheeks. She closed her eyes and stretched, a small yawn escaping parted lips. 

"Tired, my dear?" Erik murmured in a warm tone. He stood in the doorway looking like he should be intimidating, only his crinkled eyes and amused tone made it not so. Christine let out a soft, delighted laugh. 

"I believe so, yes," She gestured for him to join her by the fire, and he did so without reluctance, sitting a few spaces away from her. Christine leaned back and closed her eyes again, humming as she felt the heat from the fireplace seep into her core. Erik's eyes watched her in absolute awe. 

"I wouldn't mind it if you were closer, you know," The blonde offered with a smile, though her eyes remained closed. 

The masked man swallowed heavily and nodded, only then he realized she could not see him, and so he simply shifted closer to her. "I did not think you would come," He said after a long while. Christine nodded slowly, moving a bit closer to him as well. 

"I'll be honest to say I was not so certain either," she adjusted her position so that she might be able to comfortably lean against his wiry frame. "I feel much better now, though, that I am here." 

Erik nearly forgot how the human respiratory system worked and lost his breath. "I...am glad you are here, Christine," he whispered, and she simply hummed a single note in response. "I hope you find it comfortable here, and that I will be adequate company." Another hum, softer this time. Erik smiled as Christine seemed to nuzzle closer against him. "You have given me the most wondrous gift by simply being here, with me," his voice was barely audible by now, as he came to the realization that she was most definitely asleep against his arm. 

"You have given me hope."


	4. Chapter 4

Greeted by darkness rather than the morning light streaming in from large paneled windows, Christine was momentarily unaware of her surroundings when she awoke. She blinked several times, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she realized rather all-at-once where she was. A delighted smile tugged on the corners of her mouth. 

As much effort as Raoul had put into her room at the de Chagny estate, Christine could imagine that Erik had put forth at least triple the effort into her room here at his house on the lake. It was not easy to move furniture five cellars below an opera house, to be certain. She couldn't even fathom how he had skillfully managed to create such a quaint little bedroom for her.

Yawning, the blonde pressed the back of her hand to her rosy lips, stretching lavishly against the silken sheets. That was one thing that both Raoul and Erik had done the same; apparently silk sheets were an absolute must, for her, though she'd never requested them. Truthfully, she had become used to the cool feeling of laying against the fabric, so it was certainly nothing to complain about. 

Christine then slipped out of her comfortable bed and into her house slippers, as per her routine. She was still dressed in what she had left the de Chagny estate in, save for her shoes, which she supposed Erik had been kind enough to remove for her before putting her to bed. The thought brought an appreciative smile to her face. 

Looking around, the room was just as tidy as she'd left it, with its white draperies over the bed and a vanity set up just for her. Christine walked over to said vanity and lit the small lamp that sat atop it, illuminating the room and granting her better sight as she wished to dress for the day and thus had to locate her bag. She found it quickly, as it was propped against the foot of her bed.

Unpacking was not quite as stressful as packing was, and Christine found it soothing to see all of her necessary belongings right in front of her. She never was one for extravagance, and seeing her clothing laid out like this reminded her of when she would travel across Europe with her father. He'd always told her that she had to keep only the things she needed most, and she would reply she did not care what she brought with her, so long as he was by her side. At the memory, her lithe hand came up to gently caress the locket that lay just below her clavicle. 

Christine proceeded to get dressed in a fresh change of clothes, keeping on the slippers as she knew she would just be walking about Erik's home. She doubted they'd be going any where else; at least, at the moment. 

The gentle piano melody guided the young soprano right back into the parlor, where she remembered falling asleep late the night before. Or really, she supposed, it was early that morning. Say, what time was it? 

"You've slept in, my dear," Erik told her, a small melody threaded in his tone. She did not know that he was aware of her presence, though she supposed he had better hearing than most she'd ever encountered. "Of course that was to be expected, however," he continued with a movement of his shoulders, "seeing as you arrived here shortly after five in the morning."  

"Five in the morning? Goodness! Might I ask what time it is now, Erik?" Christine asked in response, somewhat pensively. "Simply so that I might know what time of day it is. It is rather difficult to tell from down here, as you know." 

The melody from the piano came to a rueful halt, and the masked man turned on the bench seat to look up at her. "It is half past one," his headed tilted to the side, as though regarding her. "Are you hungry? I could easily make something for you to eat." 

Half past one in the afternoon. That meant everyone above knew, most certainly, of her disappearance. Christine could feel a bubble of anxiety at the pit of her stomach, wondering what exactly had transpired in place of the planned wedding. Glancing down at the man before her, though, she decided to change her focus to the question he'd just asked her.

The blonde's lips curled affectionately, "I would be very grateful, Erik, for I indeed feel rather hungry. Come, I'll walk with you to the kitchen." She outstretched her arm, and Erik's breath caught in his throat as he carefully stood and went to her side; he paused a moment to allow her to slide her arm through the crook of his own. Her touch was always so gentle, and invoked the deepest feelings of longing from Erik's heart, though he tried his very best to appear indifferent. They began to walk.

"Did you...rest well?" Erik asked, hoping to initiate more conversation with her. He used to be so good at it, and yet now it seemed as though he was walking on glass with his words. He wanted to do it right, this time. There were absolutely no intentions to scare her away. 

She nodded, smiling, "Oh, yes! I was exhausted, so once I was asleep I don't think I stirred at all until ten minutes ago." They approached the kitchen and she released his arm, but continued to speak, "Did you sleep at all last night? Forgive me for noticing, but you must have cleaned within the hours I'd been away, and you were awake when I arrived...are you not tired?" 

The man blushed behind his mask, though she could not see, as it covered the entirety of his face, save for his eyes. With an attempt at a comedic gesture, he nodded towards a pot which sat at the stove, "I am not tired, my dear, I have coffee." He then proceeded to fix up a small plate of fruits and cheeses, and cut off a few slices of bread from a loaf he'd procured from the world above whilst she'd slept. 

Christine couldn't help but laugh lightly at his comment, though she still wished he had gotten rest the night before. Not wanting to push him, however, she decided to leave that as something to discuss later in the day. Her stomach churched as she eyed the wonderful array of food Erik was preparing for her, and she blushed at the noise, hoping he hadn't noticed. If he did, he did not say anything, for which the blonde was grateful.

"Bon appétit, Christine," The man set the colorful plate down before her, and she smiled broadly up at him in thanks. Her smile was so astonishing... Erik lightly cleared his throat and turned away. "Would you like some coffee?" 

"Oh, yes please," Christine replied in earnest, then took her first bite of bread and cheese. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she let out a contented sigh, "Erik this cheese is delightful -  what kind is it?" 

"Morbier," He chuckled at her enthusiasm, pouring her a ceramic mug-full of coffee from the stovetop. Knowing how she preferred the drink, he put in a generous amount of sugar before handing it back to her. "I believe you have had it before, though I'll admit this particular round was especially nice." 

That comment made Christine somewhat relieved, as it meant that he had eaten some of the cheese before she'd awoken; she knew of his eating habits but did not know how to help him, especially because she never personally ate with him and could not be sure that he'd eaten at all. She was certain that there'd been days he had completely neglected to feed himself due to being distracted by his music. 

"Mm, yes, Morbier sounds familiar, so I am sure you're right," the young soprano offered with a small smile, taking a sip of her coffee. "Say, ah, Erik?" 

He tilted his head and regarded her from where he stood, leaned up against the kitchen counter, "Yes?" 

Setting down her cup and simply looking ahead at the wall, Christine's voice came out sounding  rather timid, "Do you...do you know what is going on out there? Above, I mean." She glanced back down to her food and worried her lip, "Are people worried? Have they-?"

"Christine," Erik's voice was curt and demanded her attention, which she gave, turning quickly to look up at him under fluttering lashes. His eyes - as that was all that she could see if him - were serious. "Do not trouble yourself with the world above. The Chagnys and their circle of Paris are irrelevant to you so long as you are with me, here. You've made your decision, yes? In my domain, we do not speak of the outside world." 

Her brow furrowed, and her stomach did a little dip, though this time not from hunger. "Indeed I made the choice to come back here," her voice was quivering, "but you are a fool if you think that that gives you permission to speak to me as though I am yours. I am not yours." Christine took a deep breath, attempting to calm herself down, "I may query about what happened in my leave if I wish to, and I most certainly do wish to know what has happened." 

Erik turned away, struck by her fiery words. In his silence, guilt and anger simultaneously coursed through him. He found he could not get her words out of his head. I am not yours. He continued to stand there, leaned against the counter, while Christine watched him in anticipation for whatever he might say or do next. 

"You do not belong to me, mademoiselle," He spoke after a long moment, catching the young soprano off guard with his odd words. "This is true... but you do not belong to de Chagny, do you?" 

"No," she answered abruptly, "I belong to no one but myself, Erik. Now, please-"

"Yes, yes, you wish to know how your boy reacted," Behind the mask, his face snarled in disgust. "I do not know. You seem to think I know everything, my dear, and yet you see, I do not pay attention to the world by practice, and I see no reason to start doing so now." Erik glanced down at her for only a moment before looking away; her annoyance was visible. "Would you rather me lie? Tell you I know he was heartbroken beyond belief, or that he decided to end his life to cease the torment? I could come up with quite the colorful story for you." 

"Stop," Christine pleaded quietly. "You do not know. I understand. But please do not expect me to hold your same loathing of the world. It is not only Raoul I am curious about, but you mustn't hate him so." 

"And why not?" Erik spun around, striding to where she sat and stood over her with his foreboding figure. "That boy is the reason you left me! He is the reason you strayed from my guidance, the reason you-"

"Hush," the blonde shook her head and reached up to grasp the lapels of his jacket, guiding him down to her level. Surprisingly, he came without a fight, kneeling before her and watching her wearily. Christine's face was sad, though she offered a smile, "I am here now. It is pointless to be angry." She reached out and cupped his face over the mask; he shook beneath her touch. "Calm yourself, dear Erik. This has turned into quite an unpleasant conversation, when I had not intended it to be so." Her thumb against his cheek moved in gentle swiping motions, "Let us simply change the topic...I don't wish to fight with you." 

A sigh escaped Erik's lips, tears forming as he desperately clutched away her hand and held it within both of his own. "You are," He rasped, fighting sobs, "far too good to me, my dear." Christine leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, then retracted her hand as gently as she could.

"Do you suppose you might play something for me after I finish my meal?" She asked, trying to think of something that might calm him down. "I have missed hearing your music."

"And I...have missed hearing your singing," His voice came out thoughtfully, and he blinked several times before standing and smoothing out his jacket in hopes of appearing more presentable. "I would be happy to play for you, and I will not pressure you into it but, I would like for you to sing for me, as well." Golden eyes watched her carefully, gauging her reaction. 

Christine blushed, embarrassed, "I have not sung for so long, Erik... But I suppose, with your guidance, I could." Her blue eyes glanced up to meet his gaze, slightly nervous, "You would allow me to warm up, yes?" 

"I am quite sure that I would allow you anything you asked, my dear," Erik admitted with a smile from behind the mask, his heart hammering in his chest.

She smiled, standing to join him, "Well, then let us go! I am eager to hear you, Erik." 

"And I, you, Christine." He offered his arm, which she took in her own, and they were off to the parlor, their earlier unpleasantness practically forgotten.


	5. Chapter 5

"There now, ah, you may sit, Christine," Erik led the blonde to the chaise adjacent to the piano and allowed her to sit. He knew he should not be nervous; he was not nervous, only...he might be...just a little bit. The most he'd played within the last six months had been when Christine had slept that morning. He was surprised he hadn't disturbed her, in all honesty.

It was as if his inspiration and creativity had been vacuumed from his soul by her absence, only to return like an injection when she'd shown up at his doorstep, a shivering mess and a bundle of nerves. After Erik brought her to her room and tucked her into bed, he had only lingered to bask in her existence for mere minutes before striding away to dust off his dear old instrument and press his fingers against the keys. It was a reawakening; a rebirth. 

And yet here she was, sitting down so prettily and watching him with encouraging eyes, and he found himself, for the first time in years... growing shy. Erik nodded curtly at the young lady before promptly sitting down at his bench and flexing his fingers. He took a long, deep breath.

And that was all it took.

His fingers danced over the keys in Chopin's Fantaisie Impromtu, pouring all of the longing and melancholy he'd felt within the time of her absence. All of the frustration and agony and pain. He played with his whole body, moving along with the natural direction of the melody. He played with his soul, and only one human being in the world could bare witness to it.

Christine sat, mesmerized by the sight. Tears fell from her cheeks, unknown to her. She did not recognize the piece. It held little significance, that she was aware of, and yet he played it so beautifully, so mournfully. Watching him, in that moment, was a reminder of why she had missed this man so much. He'd taught her to sing with her entire soul, like he was playing now. He let her see parts of him that he had never let anybody else see before. She let him in, too, and they had shared in their sorrows. 

It was painstakingly clear how much torment she had put him through by leaving him. If their roles had been reversed; if after all they'd shared he had decided to leave her and be with another woman, Christine was certain she would be heartbroken. It was unfair, she knew, to think upon her actions now, that the events which were so devastating to him already had occurred. 

Erik didn't know when he'd started to cry, but he could feel the wetness trapped beneath his mask, and his vision progressively became more blurry. Regardless, though, he kept playing. He had to finish the song. 

As the final notes of the song hung in the air, and Erik leaned back in his seat taking labored breaths, he became aware of the presence of a certain young lady beside him. He immediately straightened, clearing his throat and hoping that he did not appear too much like a savage, in that moment. Only, then he noticed something. 

Christine watched as Erik slowly reached out to wipe away one of her tears with his thumb; his golden eyes were blazing with confusion and guilt, which only invoked within her more sorrow. 

"Why do you cry?" His voice was soft. "Have I...have I upset you in some way? Please, Christine, why do you cry?" Perhaps his playing was not as wonderful as it used to be; he was rather rusty, but would that be cause enough for her tears? 

"Y-you," She hiccuped, then raised the back of her hand to her mouth in mortification at the sound. Erik waited patiently, golden eyes watching her with tenderness she was sure she'd never noticed before. Christine moved forward and sat beside him on the bench, feeling weary. "Oh, Erik," her hand fell away, "you just play so beautifully and it made me somewhat nostalgic...it made me realize how much I have missed you." She reached out tentatively and grasped one of his hands, "Oh, please understand I did not wish to hurt you, when I left. Please understand that I was only - only frightened into - oh, Erik."

He lifted his free hand to simply continue to stroke the tears falling down her pretty cheeks, heart heavy within his chest, "Christine, do not cry over me. I do not need your pity. I cannot stand being the reason for your tears."

"Oh, but you are not!" She replied vehemently, moving closer and taking the man before her a bit by surprise. "It is only my own ruefulness and folly that is the cause of my sorrow." His hand dared to trail along her neck and lay upon her shoulder, as though supporting her as she leaned towards him in reverence. "Forgive me, Erik, I didn't wish for you to see me in such a state," her timid voice sounded after a moment. "Though," she chuckled a bit, "I know you have seen the most undesirable states of me, and have somehow yet to be deterred." Her lithe hand reached up to graze against his masked cheek, hesitant, asking for permission. His only reaction was a quick inhalation of breath. She stroked his cheek tenderly, then allowed her hand to fall upon his upper arm.

"I quite believe there is nothing you might ever say nor do that would deter me, my dear," Erik murmured apprehensively, his mind foggy due to her close proximity. 

"Oh!" Christine laughed tearfully up at him, blue eyes practically glittering. "How kind you are!" As she shifted closer still, and began to wrap her arms about his torso in an embrace, the masked man found his own grasp moving from her shoulders to her waist. He was very gentle with his touch; as though she may crack beneath him like porcelain. 

The blonde pressed her face contentedly against his chest, closing her eyes and allowing herself to bask in his presence before her. He smelt of herbs and musk and something so very Erik that there was no other description that could be given. The trembling arms around her were a comfort which she could not say she deserved but could not ask to be removed, either. His timid kindness was so precious and rare that she wished to simply enjoy the moment. 

Erik's every sense was on high alert. Everywhere that came into contact with Christine was tingly and warm: his chest, his arms, his shoulders. It was rather overwhelming, and yet he'd never experienced such happiness.

After several minutes, Christine's face warmed as she remembered herself, along with the fact that a woman and a man should likely not do such things unless they intend to be wed. She blinked and pulled away, seeming rather shy, and looked over towards the piano before them. The black and white keys gazed up at her in an incredible silence; perhaps inwardly thanking her for returning Erik to their side.

"You really do play so wonderfully, Erik," Her voice was soft. "Your music always knows how to invoke feeling, whatever the feeling might be..." Her eyes met his, and she found she could not match the intensity of his gaze. She looked away.

"Christine, I-" his voice sounded hoarse when the blonde at last stood from the bench, creating distance between them. She blinked at him, expecting him to finish, but his words seemed to catch in his throat. 

Christine would never realize how beautiful she was to him, in that moment with her lovely blonde tresses and rosy cheeks and full lips. Her gracefulness juxtaposed the absolute dumbfounded stupor she left him in. Her outer beauty was matched only by her kind soul, which so clearly shone through her every action. 

With a panicked and flustered manner, Erik shook his head and turned back to the piano. "It is nothing," came his short comment, belying the over-bursting affection which swelled his heart. His mind was still reeling with the knowledge that she had embraced him of her own accord; he could not forget her gentle warmth, nor the feeling of her soft breaths against his chest. Each minuscule detail was categorized and filed away for later ponderings. 

The soprano was curious as to what he was planning to say, but did not comment immediately, instead starting her leave of the room. "If you will allow me a moment of privacy, Erik," Christine spoke at the door, facing his back while he struggled to keep his gaze on the piano. "I am going to bathe - seeing as I've endured quite a bit to get down here, and wish to return to my typical state of cleanliness." A moment, and then her voice sounded again, "I will rejoin you in an hour or so. Perhaps...perhaps when I return then you might be my accompaniment? I shall think of a song to sing, though if there is something in particular you'd wish to hear, I'd be more than happy to oblige."

Erik did not give an immediate verbal response, simply nodding in understanding. "Of course, my dear," he cleared his throat, readying his fingers against the black and white keys before him. "Take your time, do not feel rushed because of me." Then another melody began to play, soft and light-hearted, and the soprano felt herself being dismissed.

Leaving the sitting room, Christine found her heart was pattering rather rapidly within her breast. He was the cause, she was certain, yet long-hindered feelings were not something she had intended to reawaken with her return to Erik's domain. 

Christine started the bath in the salle de bain extended from her bedchambers. She stripped away her many layers of clothing only to slip into a silk robe as she awaited the water to fill the tub.Her hair was kept in a twist atop her head, as she wished to keep it out of the way for as long as was convenient. Christine set out her preferred soaps and cleaning cloths, and even poured a decent amount of lavender oil into the water.

As she sank into the steaming bathtub, Christine felt an almost immediate calming effect wash over her. She hummed a gentle tune to herself as she lathered soap onto her hands and began to cleanse herself. As the lavender scent soaked into her skin, she could not help but wonder if Erik liked the aroma as much as she did. Or if he could even smell, for that matter. It must be a feat, what with not having a nose. 

Christine wondered if it would be rude of her to ask.

 

When she returned to the sitting room, hair freshly damp and skin still soft and flushed from the bath, Erik was no longer there. The fireplace was still alive, albeit barely, and Christine contented herself to add a few more split logs to the flames before she set out to find him. As soon as the room seemed more adequately heated, the blonde padded towards first the kitchen, and then the study, to no avail. 

He must have gone to his chambers whilst she'd been taking her bath. Christine was hesitant to approach the room; remembering what had once occurred in the dark ambiance inside.

"Feast your eyes!" He'd wailed and moaned, actions broad and jittery, "Glut your soul! On my accursed ugliness!!" She could still feel the horrific sensation of the poor skin of his visage, tearing beneath her fingernails by his doing. Oh - she'd only wished to see his face! If only his reaction had not been so...so frightening... she would have stayed. 

Christine doubted he would react so now, as she had already seen his bare face. She knew better than to surprise him like that anyhow, but even still she could not help the slight anxiousness overcoming her as she approached the door. She knocked. Once. Twice. 

"Erik? Are you in here?" 

Without any warning, the door swung open, revealing only darkness within - no sign of Erik, save for the sensation of his eyes upon her. The blonde remained in the doorway, hesitant, then steeled her nerves and took a step inside.


	6. Chapter 6

Erik had continued playing for several minutes after she'd left the room to take her bath; he needed to be certain of her absence. He did not even finish his song, instead slamming his fists down upon the keys with a discordant sound that cut off abruptly as he stood from the piano. Spiraling towards his room, Erik was all too aware of his shaking hands and palpitating heart. 

Christine had been so kind to him, so very kind, and he nearly came undone at each affectionate touch and tenderly spoken word. This had all been too much to take in. He wanted her with ever fiber of his being, and yet for all he knew she was simply attempting to be friendly towards him. There was no conceivable way in which he could conclude her feelings were more than platonic. 

Erik slammed the door to his room behind him. It was unlikely she would hear the sound, what with the running water of the faucet in the bathtub. For a moment, he could not help but picture his lovely Christine, lounging inside the large porcelain tub, steam rising from the water and causing her blonde hair to curl with the moisture. Rather quickly, he shook his head, as though to erase his mind of such an image. 

He did not lay in his coffin. It had been made known to him by Christine long ago that she despised the thing and wished he would never sleep in it again. For those six months of her absence above, he'd slept in it anyways, always preparing himself for the day when death would inevitably release him. Now that she had returned, however, he could not bring himself to so much as touch the damned thing. 

"Oh, Christine," his tears were hot and uncontrollable, and because he knew perfectly well that he was alone, he removed the uncomfortable garment from upon his face. The air was cold against his cheeks; Erik shivered at the feeling, eyes falling shut. 

Hands fisted at his side with the rush of uncontrollable adrenaline which overcame his body. He doubled over, as though attempting to contain it, a sob wrenching from his lips. It was agonizing to have her so close - just in the other room! - and for him to know she did not love him.

It was unknown to him, the time that he spent alone in his room, thoughts of isolation and dread circling his mind in a constant reminder of his poor existence. Erik surmised, though, that quite a bit of time had gone by, for there was a firm and rhythmic knock at his door. 

"Christine," his voice rasped out, entirely to himself. He could only imagine the sight of him, then; hunched over on the floor like some sort of animal, his deformity fully unmasked for her to see. Wildly, Erik pushed himself up off the floor and scurried around the room to extinguish the candles - he did not need her to see him in such a state.

With swift and precise motions, he strode to the door and swung it open, hiding just out of reach of the light from the other room. Christine seemed to pause, and he could see the momentary terror which fluttered across her pretty features. Her hair was damp, her cheeks flushed, and the scent of lavender seemed to soothe the masked man within the shadows.

The door slammed shut just as rapidly as it'd opened, which was cause enough to make Christine jump with a start. All at once she was thrust into a deep darkness, and she could see nothing. "Erik?" Her lithe hands reached out for the man. They yearned for the touch of his hand, his arm, or even the simple feeling of the fabric of his jacket. When she could not find him, it arose within her a feeling of panic. "I know you are in here," Christine called out softly, attempting to stay calm. "Are you upset? Did something happen?" 

She continued to feel around blindly, before Erik abruptly grasped her hand and pulled her towards him. For a few brief seconds the inertia of the action caused her to press up against him, but propriety caused her to flush and take a few steps back. Despite this, she continued to hold his hand. Gazing up, his deep golden irises were barely visible in the dark. It gave her something to focus her gaze upon.

"Did you enjoy your bath?" he finally spoke, voice low and warm and sending a shiver down her spine. The blonde blinked up at him, her cheeks reddening perhaps even more. 

She nodded, "Yes, I...I did." For a moment, Christine was unaware of what to say. This was all very odd, to be sure, and this situation left much to think about. "Are you quite alright, Erik?" She asked pensively, reaching out a hand and barely grazing skin before his own hand snatched it away; his grip almost deathly tight upon her wrist. It did not matter, though, for that one second of a touch was enough to relay to her one thing: he was unmasked. 

For whatever reason, that stand alone fact made her tremble slightly in his grasp. Not from fear, though, never from fear. It was a sort of anticipation, an excitement. His face was a mystery to her and everyone, though she knew better than most what to expect. Perhaps now she wished to see it under better circumstances. However, there was no way Erik could have known that, and her shivering served only to upset him.

"Oh! Frightened you, have I, mademoiselle?" His voice was bitter and sharp. "Perhaps you would do well to not touch my face, yes? When it is so disgusting to you, even submerged in complete darkness." She whimpered at the tightness of his grip upon her frail wrist, gasping a plea for him to cease. "Cease what, my dear?" His voice was thick with rage. "Being truthful about this damnable barrier between us? I may demand, as well, that you cease your turmoil and accept the fact that you chose this! You chose this life with me, whether you like it or n-" 

"Erik, you are hurting me!" She screeched in pain, and the man immediately let go, taking several unsteady steps away from her and consequently leaving her alone in the darkness. Christine cradled her wrist, somber and confused by his actions. "I do not understand you," she said, voice soft and on the verge of sobs. When met with stunned silence, Christine turned on her heel and ran towards the door, flinging it open and fleeing the room.

Left to himself, Erik fell to the floor, covering his face with his hands as his chest heaved great sobs. His temper was quick to control his actions, and the impulses which were hindered by it never seemed to lead to good. He hurt Christine. An unforgivable act, surely, and yet he'd done it all the same. Were anyone else to treat her thus, he'd not hesitate to kill them. What was he to do when he was the offender? 

He would need to apologize. Her wrist was be tended to, and he was loathe to do it with her upset with him. Her forgiveness would hurt perhaps even more, for he knew he did not deserve it, not truly. For now, though, Erik would allow her a few moments alone, knowing he needed to collect himself and return his mask to its place.

 

Once in the relative safety of her bedroom, Christine allowed her tears to fall. Such a complexity of emotions, the man she'd decided to be with. One moment, he could be so very kind to her, and the other, he could be an absolute nightmare. Her heart was at war with itself, the affection she felt put on hold while she reevaluated her decision. Was this truly wise? What would happen, now, were she to leave him again? What would happen if she ran away to the world above? 

Christine's sobs grew more languid. She knew she should hate this man; knew it with all of the intellect her father had graced her with, and knew it with what little reason her heart could offer her. The reality of the matter was that she could not! She wished to, and she knew she should, and yet something would not permit her! 

After what felt like an eternity, her tears subdued, and there was a firm knock at her chamber door. Christine sat up in her bed, glancing at the closed entrance with no small amount of contemplation. Should she allow him to enter her space? After what he did? Before she could think any further on the matter, the words flew from her mouth, unbidden. 

"Come in."

The door opened slowly, and Erik stepped inside, throat bobbing as he swallowed dryly. His mask was back, placed nicely against his ruined face as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Silence reigned between them. When he stepped towards her, Christine sat back further in her bed, reaching out a hand to stop him. 

"Erik, we must talk," she said. Her blue eyes were terribly intense, too many thoughts and feelings rushing through her at the mere sight of him. 

The masked man inclined his head in agreement, "Indeed." Another moment of silence, and then he stepped forward again, watching her every reaction with a certain amount of caution. "Please, if you would allow me..." one gloved hand reached out from his side, while the other carried a small tin box. "May I tend to your wrist?" 

Her eyes widened, anger flashing through them for the briefest of moments, "Oh, so you are allowed to treat me in such a way as long as you may pick up the pieces when you are finished?" 

"Christine-" his hand twitched irritably as he reached out for her. 

"No!" She shook her head obstinately, "This is not okay!" The tears seemed to start anew, and Erik could only watch helplessly as she raised a hand to swipe them from her own cheeks. "What made you act like such a...such a..." 

"Monster?" He suggested somberly, eyes soft. 

Christine merely sniffed, going on, "I realize, Erik, that your face is a sore subject for you, but that does not give you liberty to lash out at me like this!" 

"You took me by surprise, Christine," his jaw clenched, and the desire to look away was growing. He could not stand the sight of her tears, most especially when he caused them. "I'd not expected-"

"I was unaware that you were not wearing your mask!" Christine exclaimed with a sudden vehemence, causing the masked man before her to stare at her in a mixture of shock and realization. 

Their eyes met, and Erik nodded. "This is true, Christine, and while I know you would never seek to harm me, a part of me had lost its sensibility." He stepped forward once again and, unhindered by the blonde beauty, sat down at the foot of her bed. "I was shocked, and angry, and I acted like a frightened animal. There are no words that I could use to convey how sorry I am for having not only upset you, but for having harmed you in the process." 

Christine watched him wearily, tired from her crying and still angry at him for his actions. She knew she would not forget this instance, and it pained her to believe that despite everything they'd gone through, he would still have this side of himself. Releasing a sigh, Christine lifted her hand and offered her bruised wrist to him, "Yes, well, the least you could do is make it not hurt so terribly."


	7. Chapter 7

The next few moments were spent in silence, Erik's golden eyes carefully taking in the damage he'd done to her frail wrist. The skin was already bruising with an unpleasant assortment of yellows and red-tinted purples, displaying the actual shape that his fingers had taken hold on her. 

The sight was awful, and made Erik feel nothing but shame and absolute misery. He'd done this to her. He could not even meet her eyes, which watched him just as closely as he'd observed the injury. She could tell that he felt bad about what he'd done. Good. Perhaps it would serve as an example to keep him from doing so ever again. 

Christine lay her hand, facing upward, atop his knee while he rummaged through his medical supplies. He pulled out a dark vile of some sort of oily substance with bits of herbs floating around the top. Reading the childishly scribbled label, Christine could make out the words "Parsley and Lavender." He uncorked the top and turned back to her wrist, placing a few drops of the substance on her skin and tenderly rubbing it in with his ungloved fingers. His hands were cold, and yet they warmed as they smoothed over her skin.

The aroma was rather pleasant, and it was apparent that the extracted oil of these herbs held some sort of medicinal value to them as well. It was nice, especially considering the fact that most ointments, such as the ones concocted by doctors she'd seen in the past, truly smelled quite awful. 

After several moments, Erik nodded his head, mostly to himself, and began to bandage her wrist to keep the swelling down. She stayed perfectly still and dared not to say a word, blue eyes continuing to observe the man before her. 

It seemed as though he was finished tending to her wrist, as he hastily began putting his medical supplies back into the tin box he'd brought in with him. His gaze settled on her face for a few flittering seconds, searching for any expressions of pain, and, after seeing none, made his move to stand. Christine did not stop him. 

 

The following day, Erik checked her wrist once again, and briskly claimed it needed a few more days before it would be completely healed. There was a tense air that fell over them; they did not know where to go from where they'd gotten themselves. Only time could tell how things would pan out for the two of them. 

The day after that, Erik spent most of his time within the confines of his bedroom. Nothing but silence could be heard from outside the door, and Christine could not bring herself to knock, the memories of what had happened too fresh within her mind. Somehow, he still managed to take care of her. She awoke to a silver platter of food - breakfast - sitting at the foot of her bed, covered by a cheese cloth. He made coffee as well as tea, offering her both options as opposed to simply asking her. 

Christine saw Erik only once, when she was half-asleep and dozing off on the chaise. He came by and lifted her gingerly into his arms, then brought her to her own bed. She vaguely remembered stopping him before he left, wishing to say something. He was rather alarmed to see that she was conscious enough to know he was with her. 

"Erik," she'd said, slowly, "please do not hide in your room tomorrow." 

 

And so now it was the third day since the incident, rather late in the evening, and Christine sat in the parlor on the chaise, content to simply read to pass the time. It was a rather interesting book; she'd read it once before, but it was intriguing nonetheless. Wuthering Heights. A story composed almost entirely of terrible people, with conflicting personalities and inflated egos. Christine had to admit that the character Heathcliff reminded her of Erik, even if it was in the slightest and most mundane of ways. 

Because of this, Christine was quite taken aback when she realized a few unknown tears had landed very precisely on the page she was on. Heathcliff's death. The ink smeared on the page, turning what was supposed to be the letter "c" into something that more resembled the letter "o." Quietly, so as not to alert Erik, she wiped away her tears and closed the book, setting it beside her. 

Her blue eyes shifted from where they'd been set on the fire in the fireplace, to the broad back of Erik, who sat adjacent to the chaise at the piano. He'd acquiesced to her request the night before, and Christine was glad for it. His fingers played an absent-minded melody, something simple she recognized but could not recall the name of. 

Erik must have sensed her gaze, for he turned to glance over his shoulder, and was quite alarmed by the glossiness of her eyes. He stood, causing the melody to come to a halt mid-chord, and was by her side in moments. "Are you in pain?" A gloved hand gestured to her wrist, concern etched in what little she could see of his expression. 

Christine shook her head, smiling sadly, "Not quite." He did not understand her somewhat cryptic answer, and tilted his head to the side, regarding her with a frown. 

"What is the matter, Christine?" He asked, voice soft. 

"I...I miss you, Erik," she conceded, letting out a breath. "These past few days have been agonizing for me, and not merely because of my sore wrist." 

The masked man stopped himself from giving her the sarcastic reply: "You cannot miss someone who is in your presence." He would not tease her, for he knew precisely what she meant. He missed her too, with every ounce of his soul. "Christine," Erik started, hesitant, "you must understand how sorry I am for what I've done. I miss you too. I have since the moment you fled my room." 

Christine shuddered softly, "Will you promise me...will you promise me, Erik, to never handle me in such a way again? I wish to be treated as a friend, not an enemy." One lithe arm - the one that was not bandaged - stretched out to place a hand upon Erik's shoulder. It guided him further down until he knelt before her; until their gazes were level with one another. 

"I..." there was an internal struggle that gave him force to pause. He wanted to promise her that he would never harm her ever again, yet a part of him felt like it would be dishonest to promise something he felt he had no control over. He'd not meant to harm her in the first place. Who was to say he'd be able to stop himself next time? Erik shook his head resolutely. He would control his temper. Hurting her again was out of the question. "I promise you, Christine." 

With a heavy sob of relief, Christine launched forward and embraced the man before her, arms wrapping round his torso and pressing her cheek to his neck. He responded with desperate arms clinging to her form, cradling her as though she were the most precious being to walk the Earth. 

 

"Christine, I am afraid someone may have discovered your presence here." 

The blonde looked up from her plate of fruits and cheeses that he'd prepared her for a small breakfast. She seemed shocked, which was understandable considering the pleasant small-talk that had occurred before his statement. Her brow furrowed, "Why did you not tell me before? Do you know who it may be?"

Erik let out an aggravated sigh, "I've personally gone up to see the opera house almost every night since you've been here - I wished to check to see if anyone suspected where you'd gone. Last night I found this..." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of rather expensive looking fabric. "Someone has discovered your whereabouts, and has ventured into the cellars to find you. Someone who knows of your, for lack of a better term, connection with me." 

The blonde sucked in a breath, "Raoul." He nodded, and she knew he was restraining himself when those golden orbs disappeared behind the mask as he closed his eyes. "I...did leave him a note," Christine spoke after a long while, shame burning her cheeks. "I hoped to give him an explanation, and a push to move forward without me." 

Erik shook his head, but did not seem surprised by this revelation, "I don't see why he needed an explanation - had it not been for your note he may not have thought to look here." He seemed to be struggling with something, and she hoped it was not anger directed at her. "I know you wish to do well by everyone but perhaps there is a line that should be drawn, when your actions affect not only your future but others' as well." 

Christine frowned, glancing down at her plate of food for a moment before pushing it away. Her eyes trailed back to where we was standing beside the kitchen counter. "What should we do?" It was a question she was almost afraid to ask, but she knew he'd have an answer. Erik always had an answer. 

"There are two options that will work," His golden eyes bore into her, serious. "One: I kill him." Christine started to object, but he held up a gloved hand, silently telling her to be quiet a moment and allow him to finish. Erik took a deep breath, readying himself for what he was going to say next, "Two: we leave the opera house...never to return."


	8. Chapter 8

"Leave?" Christine blinked. She'd not even considered that as a possibility. Would Erik truly leave the security of his home underground just so that they could stay together? How many years had it been since he'd lived amongst the common society of men? His eyes were unreadable, and Christine found herself wondering what this man would not do for her. 

"Yes," he nodded. "We would have to leave the opera house. We would have to leave the city - possibly the country - altogether."

"Where would we go?" Her voice was soft. She'd traveled quite frequently when her father had been alive, but it had been over two years since his passing, and Paris had been her home for that stretch of time. "Would you really wish to leave this place behind? Would it not sadden you?"

"Oh, on the contrary, my dear," Erik replied gravely, "I feel as though this house of mine has been both my solace from mankind and also my damnation. Perhaps...perhaps it is time for a start somewhere else." 

A start with her. He'd not said it, but it was implied. It would be easier for him to live above if he was not alone. Something about that fact was rather sad, but Christine was glad to know of his trust in her.

"I...I cannot say I shall be happy to leave this place, for I am rather fond of most of the memories I have of here," Christine admitted with a small shrug of her shoulders, "but wherever we go, I shall at least be comforted to know that you will be with me." 

Erik swallowed thickly at her comment, breath hitching in his throat. "Yes, well," he paused, attempting to gather his thoughts. "I suppose we should begin the process of packing." Pulling a pocket-watch from his waistcoat, Erik peered at the time and nodded. "It is currently half-passed eight in the morning. We will leave just after the sun sets at seven, which gives us ten and a half hours." 

Christine stood, nodding, "What shall we be taking with us? I will likely take everything I brought with me here from the estate, but apart from that-?" 

"Do not trouble yourself with that until the time comes; I shall see to it that what needs to be brought will be packed away," Erik straightened from where he stood. "I, for myself, will be bringing only the barest necessities." With that, they both exited the room to get busy.

 

Christine surmised that Erik had underestimated her packing abilities. She was finished within twenty minutes, and immediately sought him out to find that he, too, was finished with his own baggage. He seemed rather shocked to see her standing in his doorway, and she simply offered a smile, hiding the smugness she felt at having had surprised him. 

They brought their personal luggage out into the parlor and placed it beside the door, then Christine set on the task of preparing food for them to have during the trip. They had three-fourths of a loaf of bread that had been fresh the day prior, a decent amount of cheese that could sustain them for a while if they cut it into small portions, and an assortment of berries. Overall it seemed that this would only last them a couple days, at most. They would need to stop somewhere to procure more food. 

She packed everything up carefully into a sturdy picnic basket, covering it all with a few layers of cheesecloth and placing Erik's good silverware inside, as well. There was little they could do in the way of drinks, save for a bottle of wine that looked as though it'd been sitting inside Erik's wine cooler for a very long time. Christine then made certain to place two wine glasses inside the basket, wrapping them in more cloth so that they would not chip.

Erik was gathering all of his best compositions and drawings, and placing them inside a tired-looking brief case that he'd not used in many years. If he was sentimental about one thing, it was his compositions. He turned his head to watch as the blonde came out of the kitchen carrying his picnic basket towards the door. 

She was concentrating on her task, and her teeth worried slightly against her bottom lip, while her brow furrowed and made delicate lines along her forehead. It would be almost laughable, if she were not so beautiful. 

Christine returned to Erik after setting the picnic basket down by the front door, her expression softening at the sight of him, which in turn seemed to cause his heart to beat faster. His eyes frantically scattered about, feeling as though she knew he'd been watching her. 

"Would you sing for me, Christine?" He asked rather abruptly, taking her by surprise. Erik set down his suitcase and glanced her direction with more focus, anxious for her response. "I would like to hear you once before we leave." 

The soprano smiled, which appeased him, "I will keep singing wherever we go, Erik, but yes, of course I shall sing for you." As the masked man settled down at the piano bench, she swiftly came around to where she used to sing during their lessons. "What would you like most for me to sing?" 

Erik relaxed as soon as he sat down, anticipation making his mind buzz with activity. What did he wish her to sing? The man flicked through his music book on the stand, the last score he had left unpacked, and grinned as he came across a song he liked. "Debussy, my dear," he began to play the intro, shoulders swaying with the motion. His fingers caressed the keys, knowing it would be the last time they would. "Nuit D'Étoiles seems fitting, hm?" 

It was one of the first songs he'd taught her. One of the first of many. Christine smiled warmly at the man, "Fitting, indeed." He played her cue to enter, and Christine felt her face flush with embarrassment when she did not sing. He turned around and looked at her once more, seeming a little perturbed. She cleared her throat politely, "May I...I hate to ask, but I have not sung for so long, may I warm up please?"  

His expression seemed to soften in understanding, and he nodded. "Of course, Christine, forgive my eagerness," Erik turned back to the keys and began to play the intervals on the scale. "Sing on an "ah" vowel, if you would." 

Christine did so, eyes smiling. Her voice was a little weak at the beginning, but grew tremendous strength as they soared up the scale. Once she felt ready, she nodded. 

Erik played the intro to her song with renewed enthusiasm. As soon as her cue rang out from the piano, her voice rose from within her in that gentle harmonious sound that he had missed so dearly. 

It was not often that Erik was moved by some else's art, but - oh - Christine truly had a voice that could make the Devil himself weep from his throne. It soared above his accompaniment effortlessly, its gentle vibrations pulling at the strings of his heart. He could not believe this woman would be fleeing Paris with him. He could only hardly believe she was there with him at that very moment! 

As the last notes hung in the air, Erik let out a breath he did not realize he'd been holding, closing the cover of the piano and sitting with his elbows propped up against the wooden barrier between him and the keys. Christine hovered closer, placing a hand on his back and tracing a soothing circle against his shoulder blades. 

"It's been," Erik rasped softly, "so long, Christine. So long since I've heard you sing, and your voice is as lovely as it ever was." The blonde smiled down at him, before joining him on the bench. 

"From now on, you shall hear it as often as you'd like," She murmured to the man, voice warm and soothing. "I do not know, dear Erik, if I have ever properly thanked you, for all you've done for me." 

Erik turned to face her, golden eyes rimming with disbelief, "Christine-"

"I wish to do so now," She cut him off, appearing more shy now that she was underneath his gaze. "Thank you, Erik, for bringing music back into my life in a way that I could never have hoped for. At a time I needed someone most, you were there, and you molded my voice into something better, something that - even if for the briefest of moments - allowed me to be the prima donna of an established opera house. I've lived the life my father had dreamed I could, and it is because of your help that I was able to do so." 

A sob wrenched from within him at her words, "I've done such terrible, terrible things-" 

"And I forgive you," Christine cut him off, reaching out to grasp both of his hands within her own. Her blue eyes settled calmly on his own watery gaze, hoping to bring him some sort of reassurance. "I do not agree with nor do I condone the methods you found yourself taking, Erik, but I do not condemn you for them." 

Erik simply shook his head, tears pooling in his eyes and falling, trapped, beneath his mask. "Christine, I love you," those words were the only words he could possibly be capable of speaking. He could think of nothing else. His love for her grew each and every moment he was in her presence. 

Tears pricked at her own eyes, but she offered no verbal response, instead turning his body towards her so that she may embrace him. She could not bring herself to return the words; to do so would dishonest, but somewhere deep inside herself there was something growing. Something that was watered by his warm tears and inability to comprehend her care for him. 

As Erik allowed himself a moment of weakness to cling to her form with every ounce of love and desperation he possessed, Christine came upon some sort of an epiphany. It was rather all at once, as she smoothed her fingers over the black silk fabric of his jacket, and words of affection flew from her rosy lips to comfort him, that she knew something with alarming certainty. Something she'd not allowed herself to acknowledge before. 

She was falling in love with him. 

She was falling in love with him, and she knew that the moment she told him so would be the same moment that things between them would change forever.


	9. Chapter 9

They left the house on the lake in the evening, just before darkness, accounting for the time it would take to haul all of their desired belongings five cellars above their current destination. 

Erik carried the bulk of it, much to the chagrin of Christine. He would only permit her to carry her own luggage and one other bag, leaving him with four to carry on his own. She thought he was being utterly ridiculous, but there'd been no persuading him. 

They were cautious while going up the slopes and turns of the labyrinthine cellars, hoping not to encounter whomever it was that had ventured down below to find her. It was likely that someone was Raoul. If it was not, then Christine and Erik would have little trouble escaping them. If it was Raoul...it would complicate matters entirely. 

For one, he would know with absolute certainty that Erik was alive. He would also know that Christine was with him, and that they were in the midst of fleeing Paris. Christine found herself walking faster alongside Erik, blue eyes warily watching their surroundings. 

It was odd. Christine knew that she loved Raoul, and yet she would rather be with Erik. If she saw the vicomte... she would still choose the man in the mask. If anyone should ask her about her feelings for either man, she'd not truly be able to give an answer. All she knew was that she wished to be with Erik. She needed music in her life, and he was, without a doubt, the epitome of music. 

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of carefully striding through the dim lit passage, they reached the entrance level of the opera house. The cool marble sounded beneath her slightly-heeled boots, which was rather worrying for Christine. They needed to be as silent as they could be, after all. She found herself walking around on the balls of her feet, wishing to avoid the clicking sound altogether. She started towards the grandiose doors that would lead out to the staircase in front, but Erik stopped her.

"We mustn't go out the front," he said, continuing on so quickly that Christine had no choice but to follow. "There is a door a few halls down that will lead to the stables; there, we will be able to load our bags and set out." Set out to where, exactly, Christine was unaware. It was apparent that Erik had a plan, but he'd shared very little of it with her.

The blonde walked warily behind her companion, wondering if she should ask him about his thoughts on escape or if she should blindly follow his orders. As they approached the large door that lead to the stables, she decided to remain quiet for the time being. There would be plenty of time to discuss their plan once they were moving. 

Erik hurriedly loaded his baggage into an empty carriage, then made a gesture to Christine that beckoned her closer. She stepped towards him, blinking in confusion, and he very simply took her bags and added them with the others on the trunk. He secured them with black leather straps to ensure that they would not fall off at the slightest bump in the road. 

It was rather nice outside, and Christine found herself appreciating the fresh air more than she'd thought she would. It had been quite some time since she'd been above. The last week or so had been spent in his house five cellars below the opera house, and while she would have been content to stay there for longer, a part of her knew she'd wish to return to the world above. 

"Christine," his voice was hushed, calling her attention back to him. "Get in the carriage. I will need to ready the horse, and I'd rather you not be out in the open, lest someone should see you." His words were terse and taciturn, but Christine could tell he was simply being cautious. The last thing either of them wanted was to be discovered. He offered her a hand and she took it, allowing him to open the carriage door and guide her inside.

He began to pull away once she was seated but she held fast, squeezing his hand within her's to gain his attention. "Be careful, Erik," She whispered when he faced her fully. Christine pressed a firm kiss to his gloved hand and then released him, "Go. You must be quick." Erik managed a nod before closing the door and striding towards the front quarter of carriage. 

Because of the vehicle's size, they would need not one, but two horses. The masked man worked as swiftly as he possibly could; readying two of the finest horses from within the stables. It occurred to him that there typically should be a garçon d'écurie or someone of the sort looking after the horses, yet he'd not encountered anyone at all. All the more reason to make haste. 

There were so many steps that Erik found himself growing rather frustrated. The headpieces, the blinkers, the brow bands, the nose bands - and that is simply for the head! It took longer than he would've liked, but by some miraculous chance he had not been discovered yet. Erik connected the breaching straps to the front of the carriage, and used the coachman's step to get him to the driver's seat. Taking up the reigns and lowering his hat to cover as much of his appearance as possible, Erik started up the horses and murmured something so low that only Christine could hear. 

"It won't take long for people to notice the disappearance of two horses and a carriage," he said. "We must be extremely careful for the beginning portion of our journey - I'll ask that you lean back in your seat, Christine, and do not attempt conversation with me."

"Alright, Erik," She whispered in return, adjusting herself so that it would be difficult to see who she was by peering through the glass windows of the carriage. Christine silently prayed for their safe travels, anxiously wringing her hands within her lap. So many things could go wrong, she realized, and it set every nerve on edge. Erik was out there, where people could see him, and could quite possibly be recognized. They could be stopped! Or worse, he could be shot on sight, as he was known as a villain to the Parisian people. 

Christine shuddered at the thought, and attempted to think positively. There was a chance that Erik would be able to grant them leave undetected. He was a genius, after all, and she was certain he had developed several plans that would branch out from different anticipated outcomes. Erik would allow no harm to come to her, she knew, but it had been made rather clear that he'd be willing to lay down her life for you. That knowledge made her nervous. She could only hope for such a thing to be avoided. Christine closed her eyes and bowed her head, letting out a soft prayer. 

 

About an hour had passed before the carriage came to a rolling halt. Christine did not dare speak, fear clutching her heart while she frantically attempted to think of any reason they might stop so quick into their journey. The carriage shifted and creaked as Erik stepped down, and the young soprano could hear the crunch of leaves that accompanied his footsteps all the way until they reached the door. He swung it open, startling her. 

"What is going on, Erik," Christine's voice was rather hushed, and she peeked out of the door to observe their surroundings. "Oh, my," she lifted a hand to her mouth in surprise, eyes brimming with tears. Erik remained silent for several moments, watching her reaction with intense eyes. It wasn't until Christine had stepped down from the carriage and launched herself at him with a tight embrace that his words could even form. 

"Perros-Guirec," Erik murmured into her blonde tresses. "I thought you might like the chance to say goodbye to your father." He had brought her to the cemetery where Gustave Daaé had been placed only a few years prior. The cemetery that Christine had frequented quite habitually when she had worked at the opera house. She was saddened by the fact that she'd not visited as often as she would've liked, in these past six months. It was worse to think that, as they'd embarked on their journey, it had been Erik to think of bringing her here, and not herself. 

Even still, she was eternally grateful. So much so, that Christine placed a hasty kiss upon his masked cheek and then hurried off towards the open gates, seeking her father's grave. Erik did not follow, instead staying behind at the carriage to make certain the horses would not wander. Slowly, he lifted a hand to graze the cheek she'd been so quick to bestow affection upon. He let out a shuddering breath and glanced the direction she'd gone.

It seemed like ages since she'd stepped into this quiet, somber place. Twigs snapped beneath her heel yet she paid little attention, a rapturous drumming of her heart building up against her ribcage. She counted the headstones, the tombs, the mausoleums, blue eyes committing each one to memory as she knew this may very well be her last visit. 

As she turned the corner and recognized a certain sculpture - an angel, her arms outstretched as though ready and willing to take you with her to the Heavens - Christine knew she was near her father. Yes, it was merely a few steps more...

Rather all at once it was before her, its weathered marble surface offering her no warm welcome; no condolences for what she'd been through. "Here Lies Gustave Daaé," it said. "A Loving Husband and Father." Save for the dates of his birth and his death, there was nothing else. They had not been able to afford a better headstone; her father would not have allowed it, anyways, and would have wanted her to use whatever money he had left her to further her vocal abilities. That being said, the engraved letters already seemed to be weathering away. One day the letters would be gone completely, Christine realized, and it would be as though Gustave Daaé had been completely erased. 

The sight of his poor headstone left her feeling bereft and weak in the knees. She collapsed before it, attempting in vain to hold back the tears that so wished to fall. There was a tin beside the grave. It was rusty and old-looking now, but Christine could remember when it'd been gleaming. She could remember placing fresh flowers there every week. 

The blonde let out a sigh and wiped her eyes, feeling rather foolish. This headstone was not her father. That tin was not her father. He was beneath her; beneath the flourishing green grass and layers upon layers of dirt. His spirit was with her, as she always knew it was when she visited. Christine could almost feel - as though it were a tactile thing one could touch - his warm presence. 

"Do not cry for me, älskling," he would tell her, smiling down at her with his wonderful blue eyes that crinkled in a way that could have made even the most serious of souls beam back with absolute giddy. "Not when you have so many things to smile about!" 

Christine laughed a little to herself. "Papa, I came here because of a man," she murmured softly, as though speaking to a sleeping babe. "He has been so thoughtful as to grant me the simple bliss to say my goodbyes to you - yes, my goodbyes!" One hand slowly reached out to caress the smooth marble; she wished it was his hand. 

"I am going away, Papa, and it is possible that I may never return," her voice seemed to grow hushed, contemplative. "Know that I love you, and know that the angel of music shall watch over me just as you told me he would." The blonde leaned forward and tenderly pressed a kiss to the surface of the headstone. It was cool beneath her lips. "Goodbye, dearest father. I know you will be with me always, no matter where I go." 

Christine stood, smoothed out her skirts, and pensively began to walk back the way she'd come. There was no possible way that she could thank Erik enough for this gift. It tugged at her heart, merely thinking about his consideration. It was a sort of closure that she'd not known was needed, but she now knew that if they'd left without her seeing her father one last time, she would have been plagued with regret for the rest of her days. 

She arrived at the carriage rather shortly, and noticed Erik visibly perk up upon seeing her. A rose of affection bloomed within her. Christine was unsure of what to do with such a feeling, and it left her feeling rather awkward and shy. Remembering that she'd kissed him chastely on the cheek before running off, her skin turned to a rather vibrant shade of pink. 

"Are you quite alright?" The masked man queried, stepping forward with an air of hesitance. "Was this...was this acceptable for me to do? I thought you might wish to see your father, but if I acted out of hand-" 

"No!" Christine shook her head rather vehemently, offering a sad smile. "I very much appreciate the gesture Erik, really, I do! I do not believe that there are words to express how indebted to you I am for this good deed, alone." 

This time, Erik shook his head, "Do not feel indebted to me, my dear. Not for this. Not for anything." There was a thoughtful silence that fell over them. Christine wished she could speak, yet afraid her heart would overcome her and allow her to share things she was not yet ready to share. Erik did not question her furrowed brow or shifting stance, simply regarding her as though she were a work of art.

Behind them, a voice, belonging to what seemed to be a middle-aged man holding a lantern, called out. "Can I help you two?" He said, not sounding as though he intended to help them at all. "Or do I need to summon the authorities? The cemetery closed well over an hour ago." 

Erik glanced over her shoulder and peered at the man, rather annoyed. "My apologies, Monsieur, we lost track of time," His voice was charismatic yet firm. "We were just leaving, anyhow. Have a nice night, Monsieur." Erik reached out to take a rather nervous-looking Christine by the hand and lead her back into the carriage. "Come, my dear," he murmured in a low voice, "we must be on our way." She nodded and ducked into the carriage, then the door was closed behind her with a click. 

The middle-aged man stopped from where he was standing at the gates, contemplating what to do as he watched what appeared to be a young woman and her coachman take off. Rather curious, for 10 o'clock at night. He decided he would not trouble himself at the moment, but would remember the event should he ever need to recall upon it. The woman was quite charming, with a petite frame and pinned up blonde tresses. The man - he'd not glimpsed much of his face but it was clear that he was a dark and foreboding figure. 

Turning his lantern away from the road, the man reaffixed the lock upon the gate, mumbling something to himself about how odd that such a young woman should be traveling alone. Suddenly, he jolted up, as though remembering something. Something in the papers, it was, yes! In a haste, the man set down the lantern and pulled a piece of folded paper from his waistcoat. In large, bold letters, he read over the headline: Vicomtess-To-Be Gone Missing.


	10. Chapter 10

Christine did not know when she fell asleep. Or, really, she did not know that she'd been so exhausted. Blinking open pale blue eyes, the young woman was at first rather confused as to her whereabouts. The jostling of the carriage reminded her quickly, and she sat up to peak through the sheer curtains on the door that separated her from the outside world. It was daytime, that much she could tell, but Christine did not recognize the forested path they were on. 

Closing the curtain, the blonde spoke out, attempting to gain the attention of her companion. "Erik?" She started, then tried again after clearing her throat a bit. "Erik? May I come up to sit with you?" The thought of him staying up all night alone did not settle well with her, and she rather wanted to be in his company, anyways. It was much more preferable than sitting and staring out the window by herself. Besides, there was less danger of being recognized now that they had left the city, was there not? 

Erik blinked in surprise at her calling, and was about to respond when she spoke again. Her request was simple and rather harmless, but there was something that made him nervous about the notion. A third time, he heard her call his name, and Erik let out a relenting sigh, tugging on the reins of the horses to have them pull to the side of the path. 

Christine stepped out almost immediately, and while Erik turned to step down from the driver's seat, the two abruptly ran into the other. The blonde lifted a petite hand to her forehead, a blush dusting her cheeks in embarrassment. Erik's eyes widened, and he stepped down completely, reaching out to her head. 

"You have my sincerest apologies, Christine," he told her solemnly, golden eyes filled with guilt and concern. The soprano watched as he gently removed her own hand from the harmed area, and she could not help the small shaky breath that she drew in at the contact. Erik peered down at her forehead for several moment - perhaps longer than necessary - and then released a breath and stepped back. "I believe you will be alright, my dear, but I truly am sorry," he seemed to ponder something before he spoke, "does it hurt? We have medical supplies in the carriage..."

Christine laughed softly, waving her hand in a gesture that indicated medical supplies would not be needed. "I was taken aback, is all," she promised, "it does not hurt much. I suppose I was rather eager, wasn't I? Not truly paying attention." Eager was putting it lightly. As soon as he'd begun to slow them to a halt, Christine had been waiting not-so-patiently at that door, feeling an uncontrollable urge to see him and make certain he was alright. 

Erik pursed his lips, not knowing how to take her words. Why would she be so eager to see him? He pushed away the thought, instead gesturing towards the horses, who had decided to graze upon the grass beneath them. "I believe that we should take a break and allow the horses to rest," He told her, and she nodded in understanding. "Are you very hungry, Christine? We may as well take advantage of our moment of pause." 

"Actually," Christine smiled sheepishly up at him, "I am rather hungry - would you opposed to sitting and eating with me? I've packed some wine, too, if you happen to be thirsty."

Erik chuckled; a deep, throaty sound that she was not accustomed to. She wished he'd do it more often. "Not opposed, my dear - quite the opposite, in fact," He walked towards the carriage and searched through their bags until he came upon the picnic basket. "I believe that a bit of wine sounds rather nice right about now." 

Christine stepped up, too, standing a bit closer than might be deemed proper, but she did not care as she peered over his shoulder. "As much as I'd love to stay outside to eat, would it not be more wise to sit inside the carriage?" The blonde suggested in a contemplative tone. "I cannot help but be paranoid of discovery." 

Nodding, the masked man turned to face her, "I do not blame you. Of course we may sit in the carriage." Erik opened the door and nodded towards the interior, "Please - ladies first." Christine smiled up at him, reassured by his agreement.

She stepped inside with an air of grace and barely contained happiness. There was something rather thrilling about sitting inside such a small space with her companion, especially knowing they'd be indulging in wine and food. Erik stepped in behind her, ducking his head to avoid collision with the rather short opening. 

Christine positioned herself to one side of the carriage, smoothing her hands over her skirts and attempting to keep a handle on the warmth that continued to spread through her chest and face. His gaze felt like a warm bath, and the blonde could feel herself beginning to soak in its warm depths. 

Erik sat adjacent to her, his back as straight as it possibly could be with the small quarters. He set the picnic basket to his side and slowly retrieved from within the bottle of wine and two glasses that she'd packed. Upon receiving a graceful nod from Christine, he poured a small amount into her glass. When he handed it over, Christine could not help the tingling sensation that ran through her at the brief contact of fingertips.

To cover her sudden nerves, she lifted the glass to her lips and took a tentative sip, blue eyes shifting to the window in avoidance of his gaze. If Erik thought she was acting oddly then he did not say as such, instead filling his own glass and then setting the wine to the side. 

"You said you were hungry, yes?" Erik asked her in a soft tone, his voice warm and low. She turned to face him, lips slightly parted as she began to answer. Her mouth promptly fell shut, however, upon seeing his hand - his wonderfully calloused and exquisitely lithe hand - offering her a strawberry. 

Was he intending to feed her? Likely not, she decided, but the thought of leaning forward to take the offered fruit between her teeth made her stomach churn with a curious longing. Christine made the mistake of meeting his eyes, which were watching her very closely, as though waiting to see what her reaction to this situation might be. His gaze was intense, and after a few moments Christine decided she'd better make a decision, lest they remain in that position until someone gave out. 

Careful not to disturb the glass of wine held firmly upon her lap, the blonde very slowly began to move forward. She could have sworn she saw Erik's face flicker with some sort of held back emotion, but it was too quick for her to see. Rosy lips enclosed around the strawberry, grazing against his fingertips for a mere millisecond before she pulled back, blue eyes never having left his gaze. 

She swallowed, and he found himself mimicking the action. Christine's gaze was immediately drawn to the bob of his Adam's apple, and something in that action seemed to thrust her back into reality and she blushed, returning to her drink. 

Erik cleared his throat and proceeded to hastily finish his wine, heart racing in his chest perhaps just as rapidly as her own. He abruptly moved to get out of the carriage and Christine was not yet recovered enough to ask him to stay. His boots touched down on the grassy bed beneath them and he lingered by the door to the carriage for a moment, thoughts rumbling all around his head. 

"You may continue eating your breakfast, my dear," he told her, voice sounding rather strained to even his own ears. "I will tend to the horses." Before she could muster a response, the man was gone. Christine leaned back against the cushioned seat, letting out a long breath and willing herself to calm. 

That was...perhaps a bit too much in such a short amount of time. Christine continued to eat her small meal and took sips of her wine until the deep red liquid was gone. She was unaware as to whether or not Erik wished to eat any more, and so she covered the picnic basket with a cloth but did not fully put it away. 

Erik found that his few moments away from the young soprano allowed him space to breathe and think over their circumstance. She'd not agreed to anything, not really. They were...companions, friends. What ever possessed him to make him offer that damned fruit to her in the carriage had to be put to rest immediately. No doubt, the entire moment had made her feel rather uncomfortable.

As it had happened before, and he had faced the consequences, Erik certainly wished to avoid scaring the poor girl off. He absentmindedly brushed the mane of one of the horses, wondering how he would survive the loss of Christine for a second time. 

The blonde peered out of the carriage, eyes trailing over his broad shoulders and pensive movements. He was deep in thought; this much was apparent. However knowing him, Christine was aware that his thoughts, more often than not, could easily affect his mood when they lingered too severely upon a certain subject. 

Said subject was typically her, or in some sort of relation to her. 

Christine hesitantly opened the carriage door and stepped down, careful of her skirts catching on the step. "Erik?" She called as she moved towards him. "Would you like any assistance? I adore animals, so I am sure I would be happy to help." 

The masked man seemed to jolt in surprise at her voice, but recovered so quickly she doubted there'd been any sort of reaction in the first place. 

"Yes," Erik nodded, turning to face her for but a moment before striding towards a small basket and handing it to her. "Inside are carrots and apples for the horses, should you wish to feed them." 

The prospect delighted her, "Oh! That would be lovely." Christine made her way to the first horse, smiling warmly at the animal and offering an apple from her flat palm. She'd used to love visiting the stables at Raoul's estate to see the horses. There really was something about the creature that was so majestic. 

Unbeknownst to her, Erik watched the blonde's gentle movements and excited reactions for a few moments, heart thrumming in his chest. He turned back to his task, a smile tugging at the edges of what scarce lips he possessed. He was perfectly content to be her friend, he decided, but there was no squandering the building hope in his chest that maybe, some day in the future, he could be something more.


End file.
